


mellohi, within the walls

by TjLockticon



Series: The Hunt Eternal [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dream Manhunt, Dream SMP War, Dream Smp, Gen, Supernatural Elements, gothic horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27964802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TjLockticon/pseuds/TjLockticon
Summary: Wars come and go, but the Hunt is eternal.
Series: The Hunt Eternal [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048087
Comments: 14
Kudos: 63





	mellohi, within the walls

**Author's Note:**

> On a quiet night, the Emissary of the Hunt stumbles upon the walls of the newly risen L'Manberg, and he ponders.

A dull, whistling howl echoes through the night sky above Somniterram, the wind nothing more than a feeble murmur beneath it. The moonlight, barely more than a sliver, is lost in the dark maelstrom of shadows and sound that churns above the capital of their once-great nation. Ashen lamps spit smoke into the surging storm, but nothing alleviates the wailing noise, or the silence that hangs uncertainly in the valley beneath it. The maelstrom thrives on that silence. _Feeds_ on it. The silence nurtures a thousand swirling voices, a baleful cacophony that screams and screams until it unifies to speak but a single name, each time a new Hunt begins.

Most of Somniterram's citizens cower from the maelstrom, taking shelter in their houses, never setting foot into the city's streets after sunset. It is, after all, when night falls that the maelstrom is the loudest; but, to the solitary figure perched on the cliffside overlooking the valley, the storm is like a lullaby. Where others hear screams, he hears laughter and songs; he hears a battle cry, a melody of hunting horns, a glorious call to arms. 

He is the _Emissary._ The Hunt sings to him like it sings to no one else. It whispers its tenets to him and him alone, and he upholds them with the utmost dedication. There is no pause for thought when the Hunt gives its command; the Hunt _is_ him, and he is the Hunt. He is its mercy, and its wrath. He is its champion and vassal, its lord and servant. He has ridden at the forefront of each Hunt for decades, each death he suffers in its service only making him stronger upon his return. He is the voice of its simple laws, the laws that have held this land in the grasp of the Hunt for longer than any of its lowly citizens care to remember:

_When the prey is named, none may aid them._

_When the tithe is asked, all must give it._

_Let there be no new blood born. Let there be no old bones laid to rest. Let the Hunt continue, and be prosperous._

_Let there be no song but the maelstrom's call._

All has been as it should be, for so, _so_ long. Long enough for most to have forgotten what it was like before the Hunt - or that there was a _before_ at all. _Before_ is just a story now; even the other Hunters have forgotten. 

The Emissary has no such luxury. He _must_ remember those dark and quiet times, before the Hunt brought _glory_ to their lands. He _must_ remember it, that time when the night was silent and still, so that he can ensure it never comes again. When his fellow Hunters remove their masks and wander home, to eat and sleep and find comfort in familiar company, he remains awake; he watches, mask frozen in placid, smiling delight.

He is the Emissary of the Hunt. His name is Dream, and he does not sleep. His body and mind belong to the Hunt, and he watches, ever dutiful, from the crest of the cliff overlooking the valley. He hums along to the tune of the maelstrom, comforted by its restless cries. He is, as ever, alone; it is the way things must be. He waits, each night, for the Hunt to name its prey; his name is Dream and yet he _cannot,_ so he takes refuge in memories of past Hunts, and yearns for the next.

He should not wonder, for there can be no ambiguity; there is the Hunt, and _nothing else._ No long-lost before, no far-distant future. No death without resurrection, no new life granted to bring hope for something greater, for there can be _nothing_ greater than the glorious, endless Hunt. There should be no song but the howl of the maelstrom, no _purpose_ but the next Hunt, and the one after that, and all those that follow.

There cannot be another song. There is only _this,_ and nothing more.

And yet tonight, as the Emissary sits upon the cliff, mask and axe pristine, awash in the maelstrom-

Tonight, there is another song. A strange tune, small and subdued, but it cuts through the maelstrom like a diamond blade. As it reaches Dream's ears, the voice of the Hunt seems to wail with fury, deafening in his skull. Behind his mask, he grimaces; a weak and mortal gesture, but sometimes the flesh remembers what the mind has forgotten. Standing slowly, he grips his axe in hand, the brilliant blue diamond long tarnished by the rust of old blood. Never cleaned, not once; it is an honor to bear the mark of each successful hunt. A brutal legacy is stained upon the blade; proof of each life Dream has taken in service of the Hunt.

For a moment - a fleeting, fragile moment - his hand trembles. The axe nearly slips, before he tightens his grip again. The song lures him away from Somniterram, from the many hundreds of citizens - his charges, his flock, his sacrifices upon the altar - who slumber below. The maelstrom screams to pull him back, and he knows he will be punished later for his distraction, but curiosity draws him in.

Another forest, another valley. Another cliff to which he rides, a spectral phantom wreathed in white and green.

Below him now stands an unfamiliar compound. Little more than a few old RVs and tents in a clearing, surrounded by a haphazard and crudely constructed stone wall. It looks hastily thrown together, like a sketch on a drawing board, not yet brought to fruition. Still, there are inklings of intent that send shivers down Dream's spine; the wall draws his eye, yes, but the most damning piece of evidence is the echo of noise played over speakers, tinny and distorted. Not just noise, he realizes quickly, but _music;_ a melancholic waltz, a slow and gentle rhythm.

It is an abomination, and the Hunt screams for its destruction, but the Emissary cannot move closer.

_Let there be no song let there be no song let there be no song-_

There should not be another song. All the music discs in Somniterram were destroyed decades ago, shortly after the Hunt claimed Somniterram - there _cannot_ be more. Dream hunted them down, every last one, and destroyed them with his own hands. Eyes widening with horrified understanding, Dream recalls the reason for the maelstrom's anger; so long as these discs play throughout this strange little compound, the Hunt cannot reach inside it. It cannot name the people within those walls as _prey -_ not until they step outside again.

Behind his mask, Dream's expression hardens.

This _cannot_ continue. The Hunt cannot be defied; to try is to invite tragedy. The Hunt claims only those it needs, except when threatened; now it will claim so many more. Lives will be lost needlessly, unless he ends this foolish little rebellion here and now.

Lifting his axe, he drifts down to the wall, the voice of the Hunt a symphony of fury in his mind, letting no doubt slip inside.

* * *

Up on the wall, Wilbur hears the howl first, long before he sees the Hunt's white-and-green nightmare emissary. Jaw clenching, he glances to his side, where Tommy struggles to stay awake on their shared watch. Nudging him in the shoulder, Wilbur hisses under his breath, "Tommy. _Tommy."_

With a jolt, Tommy blinks back awake, blearily rubbing his eyes. "Yeah - yeah! I'm awake! What'd I miss?"

Ignoring Tommy's question, Wilbur orders, "Go inside. Stay by the record player and stay quiet." The howl is getting louder - Dream will be here any second now, Wilbur can just _feel_ the night getting colder with each passing second, and he can't, he _can't_ let him see Tommy. Or let Tommy see Dream. For all his baby brother's bravado, he's still all of fifteen years old, and he's never had the misfortune of seeing the Emissary of the Hunt face-to-face. If Wilbur can at all help it, they'll _never_ lay eyes on each other. And just what the hell is all of this _for_ , if he can't keep his family safe?

Tommy's brow furrows. "Wilbur, what-"

 _"Now,_ Tommy," Wilbur snaps, trying to use the same tone their father had perfected before his exile (and death, Wilbur suspects, though he won't tell Tommy that). He winces internally as Tommy flinches, startled and confused by Wilbur's abrupt shift in tone, but the kid doesn't argue. He just nods, holding his sword tight - and _wrong,_ Wilbur notes with dismay, because of course he can't hold it right, it's their father's sword and it doesn't fit in Tommy's hands. The armor doesn't fit well, either - cheap chain, not good enough, not _nearly_ strong enough to hold up against the likes of fully armed Hunters.

If Dream's brought the rest of his pack with him, Wilbur knows the walls won't hold. L'Manberg isn't ready yet; they were relying on secrecy, on isolation, but Wilbur knows it was only a matter of time before they were found out. It's taken _months_ of planning just to get this far, and if he doesn't hold his nerve, _right now_ , they will lose everything. So he stands his ground on the walls, sword grasped in a white-knuckled hand. All he can hope for at this point is that the discs - Tommy's most prized possessions, the last gift remaining from their departed father - actually do what they're supposed to, and keep the Hunters at bay.

The tune of Mellohi is a somber comfort as the wind cracks against the walls of the rebellion's meager stronghold. As of this moment, most of them should be trying to sleep; this leaves Wilbur the sole line of defense between the rebels and the monster that's riding up to their walls. The iron sword in his hand and the shoddy crossbow on his hip will barely scratch the armor of Hunters, and probably won't even _graze_ the Emissary, who Wilbur is pretty sure is no longer even _human._ But, it's the best they've got right now. _He's_ the best they've got right now, which puts them in pretty miserable standing against the Hunters, if he's being perfectly honest with himself.

More than ever, he wishes Techno was still around. Techno and their father together could've shaped the rebellion into something to be proud of, rather than the pathetic collection of scared kids and restless upstarts that've flocked to Wilbur's side. Techno is probably the only person Wilbur knows who might've stood a chance against the Emissary... which, of course, is exactly why he was named as a target as soon as he and their father made their first attempt to stand against them. Their mission to destroy the portal in the city center - the source of the Hunt's power, Phil had long since theorized - had been a disaster from the start. Even with Schlatt's sacrifice - the madman had charged right into the heart of the maelstrom with one of Phil's prototype endcrystal bombs - their efforts hadn't nearly been enough. Phil and Techno and their allies had fought like hell, and all of them, _all of them_ had fallen.

Wilbur so badly wants to have his brother and father back at his side. Techno had been the biggest thorn in the Hunters' sides - nearly dispatching _Dream_ , in fact. It's no wonder the Hunt declared him prey immediately after the failed assault, reinvigorating its Hunters for the pursuit. Wilbur can never forget the sight of Phil and Techno limping back to their hideout, almost close enough to be in reach - just for Techno to hear the wail of the Hunt, and turn to run away, rather than lead the Hunters back to his family.

Wilbur's biggest regret about the whole thing is that Tommy had watched it happen. He'd barely been able to grab the poor kid and clamp a hand over his mouth before he started screaming. Phil had laid low outside for a while, then shuffled inside the hideout like a zombie, injured and probably a little in denial about losing his secondborn son. Not long after that, the Hunters had come back, and Phil had been the next to get targeted.

After that, it was just Wilbur, Tommy, and Tubbo.

Now it's Wilbur, Tommy, and Tubbo, plus Niki and Eret - and Wilbur's son Fundy, who's existed for all of two years and _feels_ like he's thirteen, and either way is _far_ too young to be dealing with this shit. A half-dozen rebels and a shitty camp, that's all Wilbur's got to his name now. That, and his father's legacy, and the memory of how vicious his younger brother was in a fight. It's not enough, but he clings to it with all he's got, trusting it to keep his willpower from wavering as he finally sees that white-and-green shroud descend from the sky. 

He exhales a faint breath of relief when he sees Dream approach alone, but nothing can stop the chill that runs down his spine. Dream is a nightmare to behold, a half-spectral figure cloaked in acid-green and bone-white. Wilbur's not sure where he picked up the name _Dream_ from; a kinder alternative to the more appropriate _Death,_ he supposes. In a world like theirs, dreams are the closest thing most of them get to really dying. Only the lucky few ever get to _die,_ when they piss off the Hunt enough: Schlatt. Techno. Phil. The ones who wouldn't join the Hunters, and were too much trouble to let live. The rest all get to keep living, waking up in half-familiar places when they die. They get to keep seeing _him_ patrolling in the night, always watchful, like a predator stalking its next kill.

Some people whisper that Dream's mask is fused to his face, that there's nothing left beneath it. Just a black hole through which the winds of the maelstrom eternally howl, shaping themselves into a voice that pretends to be a man. Wilbur is one of the few people left who knows that isn't true; he's seen the face beneath it, just once. Back then, he might've believed Dream still has some humanity left inside him; that maybe, _just maybe,_ there's something in there that might understand a plea for mercy.

Wilbur was a child then. He knows better now.

When Dream stops at the base of the wall, staring up at Wilbur from behind that gently smiling visage, Wilbur glares back with all the thoroughly-ingrained hate burning in his heart. Dream simply cocks his head to the side, as if the wall - or Wilbur - is some amusing little bauble. Beneath the cloak of green and white, a chestplate of bloodstained diamond gleams under the pale torchlight; the axe hangs at Dream's side, ever poised to strike.

Clearing his throat, Wilbur grates out, "What are you doing here, Emissary?"

Dream's voice is hollow when he speaks, no emotion to it at all. "Trying to follow in your father's footsteps, Wilbur Soot? We both know where that will lead."

It takes all the strength Wilbur's got not to take the bait. Gritting his teeth, he prays Mellohi will keep playing, the beautiful melody of the discs the only thing keeping Dream at bay. "I'm doing what I have to do, _Clay_ ," Wilbur says stiffly, pleased at the way the man below him tenses at the sound of his name - something Phil made sure Wilbur remembered. How Phil knew the Emissary's real name, Wilbur doesn't know, and doesn't care. It throws Dream off, and that's all that matters. "I'm keeping this place safe. You and your _hunters_ will never touch L'Manberg so long as I have anything to say about it."

"L'Manberg, huh?" Dream says, sounding vaguely amused. "Who came up with that one? Tommy?"

Wilbur's hand clenches into a fist. It's been impossible to keep Tommy completely hidden - the kid's too volatile, too aggressive, and he's made enough of a nuisance of himself to draw some attention - but all the same, he _hates_ hearing Dream say his baby brother's name. Especially with that subtle inflection of disdain. Dream doesn't think Tommy deserves to _exist,_ after all. None of the Hunters do. 

"Where's all your little friends, Dream?" Wilbur retorts, desperate to move the conversation away from Tommy. "Surprised you didn't bring the whole gang with you."

Dream is quiet for a minute. "They don't know about this yet," he eventually says, his mock sincerity setting Wilbur's teeth on edge. "No one else knows - just me, and the maelstrom. You've made it angry, Wilbur."

Wilbur snorts. "Yeah, that was kind of the point."

"Don't do this, Wilbur," Dream warns, voice reverberating with a multi-layered tone that isn't entirely human. "Whatever you're trying to do here, with those - those _discs -_ just stop it. You know you can't win. Your father couldn't win against us, and neither could your brother. You're just going to get more people hurt if you keep trying." Another long pause; all the while, the howling wind and the crackly record of Mellohi clash in the night, a discordant, furious symphony. "If you give me the discs right now... if you go home, and you stop trying to provoke the Hunt... no one has to get hurt at all."

An angry, disgusted sneer breaks across Wilbur's face. Leaning over the parapet, he snaps bitterly, "If I give you those discs, you will _murder_ my brother, the _only family_ I have left. Don't even fucking try to tell me you won't, I _know_ what your kind do to the people who won't obey you." The discs have to keep playing, the walls _have_ to stand, Dream and his hunters can _never_ find out about Tubbo or Fundy - Wilbur can't let it happen, _won't_ let it happen. Right now, he _is_ the wall of L'Manberg, and he _will not fucking fall._ "If you want these discs, you're going to have to come in here and pry them from our cold, dead hands. We're _done,_ Dream, do you understand? We're not part of your fucked up nation anymore. You want us back in that _prison_ , you better be prepared to spill some blood."

So much goes unsaid, after Wilbur spits out his lonely declaration of war.

 _You could stop this you could let us leave you could save us you could save_ **_them_ ** _you could've_ **_always_ ** _saved them-_

Dream is so terrifyingly silent, for an agonizingly long time.

"...Why are _you_ doing this, Wilbur?" Dream finally asks, voice almost lost beneath the deafening wail of the distant maelstrom. "Your family's already given so much. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

Wilbur scoffs. "Because-"

_Because my father told me to protect them._

_Because I should've done better the first time._

_Because_ **_you_ ** _could've helped us, and you chose not to._

He sets his jaw firmly, holds his head high.

"Because _someone_ has to," he proclaims, with all the borrowed bravery he can muster. "And if no one else will step up... well, then I guess it has to be me. You can't control us, Dream. Hunt us and kill us a hundred times over, it doesn't matter. You _can't_ control us."

Dream goes silent again. Wilbur's eyes never leave the axe in his hand; he's prepared to sound the alarm if that axe lifts, if a crossbow materializes in Dream's hand. Eret and Niki are probably awake by now, shaken from sleep by the sound of the wind; if it all goes wrong now, they'll be ready to take the kids through the escape tunnels, while Wilbur holds off Dream as long as he possibly can. As soon as he respawns, he'll probably get named for a Hunt, but better him than anyone else. If Phil taught him anything, he taught Wilbur to be good at running; it was the first lesson all his sons ever learned, and the first lesson Wilbur taught Fundy.

_When the world is ruled by Hunters, you have to know how to run._

But it seems tonight, at least, there will be no running.

Dream's axe never moves, except when he turns away from the wall without another word. Wilbur stands frozen on the wall, barely breathing, as the nightmare Emissary of the Hunt walks away into the night, taking the howl with him. It doesn't feel like victory; it feels like prolonging the inevitable, but Wilbur can't help a shaky sigh of relief anyway. Somehow, he's bought L'Manberg a little extra time, and they're gonna need all the time they can get.

He's just started a war with an unbeatable monstrosity of a foe. They're probably all going to die, again and again and again. The kids are going to have to learn to become _very_ good at hiding, or they're going to have to learn how to kill. Wilbur hates the thought of turning the kids into killers, but if Dream leads the hunters against them, they're not going to have much of a choice. They all have to be soldiers now.

Tonight, as Mellohi plays somberly across L'Manberg, the revolution begins.

* * *

_A different place, a different time._

_A room where the maelstrom's howl doesn't reach._

_Dream **shouldn't** remember such a place. He can't remember where in Somniterram it used to be, or how to get there, or if it even exists anymore. But he remembers how it felt to stand in a room built of blackstone and obsidian, the walls soaking up the sound of Mellohi - another name he shouldn't know, that teases at the tip of his treacherous tongue. In Dream's memory, the room reeks of brimstone, and the candles on the workbench flicker dangerously, threatening to gutter and drown in their wax. A brewstand bubbles somewhere: in the corner, bookshelves lie in disarray, blown apart as if by TNT. The enchanting table is broken, useless._

_In the center of the room, there's an object that looks like a respawn anchor, except... different. It's been recently shattered, and still hisses with heat. There's a man in a striped hat and coat kneeling in front of it, with wings folded limply against his back. Dream circles slowly around him; heat stings his face, his barren face, unmasked, **this shouldn't be happening this is wrong-**_

_The howl is quiet. Mellohi plays smoothly, steadily. It makes the room feel calm. Maybe even safe._

_The man on his knees breathes heavily, wiping sweat from his brow. As he leans back, Dream sees his chest is burnt and scarred with angry welts; his eyes are bloodshot, leaking thin streaks of black ichor from the corners. Dream knows - he **knows** \- this man should not be alive. He can't quite recall what this man has just done, but he knows it was dangerous - fatal, if done wrong. This room is sheltered from the Hunt, and so sheltered from the eternal respawn cycle; death here means it sticks. _

_It's a terrifying thought, really. Yet Dream feels no terror in this memory, only amazement as he looks down at this man. Dirty blonde hair falls across his face, his eyelids drooping as exhaustion takes hold, but as he looks up at Dream, he cracks a smile._

_This shouldn't be. No one in this world smiles for Dream. He is all their nightmares embodied; such a gesture cannot be meant for him._

_He wonders if he's really here. Or if this memory is something stolen._

_He **always** wonders, when permitted. When the shackles loosen just enough._

_"You see?" the man murmurs, voice hoarse. "I told you it would work." Something squirms in the man's arms, letting out a distorted squeal. The man looks down and hushes it gently, and finally Dream sees what he holds. A baby piglin, he thinks at first, but quickly realizes that's not quite right. There's hair, for one; shocked pink, tufted and soft-looking. Pale skin, human skin, and tiny human hands. The face is something in between; there are pieces of humanity in the scrunched-up hoglike features._

_It's an abomination._

_It's a **newborn**. _

_It cannot exist. The Hunt does not **allow** new life to exist - new life means a **future** , it means the people have something to aspire to, it means there is **hope** \- _

_Dream staggers. The memory distorts._

_"I told you," the man murmurs, "it's not impossible. The Hunt doesn't control everything. It doesn't control **us."** Eyes, blue eyes, fall on Dream again. The world feels like it's breaking around him, but maybe that's just the maelstrom screaming outside. "It doesn't have to control **you** , either."_

_**This can't be can't be can't can't can't-** _

_The newborn keeps crying in its strange, not-human voice. Footsteps shuffle from the hallway while the man with the wings consoles the tiny new life he has somehow ripped into the world, through some experiment that should never have worked. Dream's gaze darts to the darkened arch of the open door, and the last thing he sees in the memory before it fades is a preteen boy with curly brown hair, wearing a beanie hat that doesn't fit._

_Their eyes meet briefly. For a moment, Dream wonders if rebellion might be more glorious than the Hunt._

_Then the memory is gone, stolen by the howling wind._


End file.
